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Lingyu Chronicles

DaoistZrelFm
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Synopsis
Dreamlike whispers call him into an endless abyss. The Lingyu is a realm beyond comprehension: blood sacrifices on the desolate plains, the southern tribes’ witch songs, the lost cities of the western heavens, the ancient gods of the eastern seas… Every step into it is a bargain with the unknown; every breath is under the gaze of the elder gods. He must choose between madness and clarity, struggle between truth and illusion. —If the Lingyu is nothing but a dream of the elder gods, how can one ever escape?
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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1: The Call of the Mist

When he opened his eyes, he found himself trapped in an endless sea of fog.

The heavy mist devoured the moonlight; the outlines of the street blurred into near nothingness. From afar came a low, murmuring voice—like whispers rising from beneath the earth, like the ocean's waves pounding against stone cliffs—seeping slowly into the marrow of his bones.

The air carried the scent of old book pages mixed with rotting leaves, as if laced with some ancient threat that made one instinctively want to retreat. Yet when he tried, his steps were already swallowed by the fog. Yè Chényōu felt a faint tremor in his chest, as though some unknown force stirred within him, and his breathing grew hurried.

Through the mist, a shadow passed—vast, distorted, indescribable. Its eyes glimmered with a light beyond human comprehension. He tried to scream, but no sound emerged. The whispers seemed to respond to his fear, crawling slowly into his blood:

"The Lingyu… is awakening… You… must go on…"

Suddenly, a damp scrap of parchment appeared in his hand, etched with strange symbols—half text, half geometry that defied all reason. Narrowing his eyes, he tried to read them, but every time he focused, the symbols writhed, alive and shifting.

A sudden gust swept through. The fog surged with a will of its own, and Yè Chényōu jolted upright from his bed. The mist had already vanished from the room, leaving only cold air and the lingering weight of terror. He gasped for breath, heart pounding like a drum, yet he could not rid himself of the dream's shadow.

Outside, the mist churned in the night wind, as if something unseen still watched him. At the doorway, a figure flickered—a man? An old one? Or a phantom? A single low voice resounded:

"The Lingyu has yet to reveal itself, but you have been chosen."

The words faded, and so did the figure, leaving only a faint herbal fragrance and a trace of ominous chill. Slowly, Yè Chényōu tightened his grip on the fragment of parchment. In his mind surfaced broken visions—colossal beasts, indescribable sigils, and that marrow-deep murmur. He realized he could never return to the world he once knew.

The next morning, the mist had not lifted. The streets lay empty, shrouded in eerie silence. As Yè Chényōu descended the stairs, he found several old men gathered in the town square, their eyes profound, tinged with wariness. At the square's center lay fragments of a tattered ancient book. He recognized one volume instantly—it was the very same Classic of Mountains that had appeared in his dream. The relic pulsed with a faint glow, silently beckoning him forward.

As he reached out to touch it, light flowed along his fingertips into his body. Tremors surged through him, and in that instant he seemed to hear the whispers of forgotten gods. A storm of emotions welled within him—fear, curiosity, and an unspeakable premonition. The Lingyu was reaching for him, and he was being drawn into its path.

Yè Chényōu raised his gaze toward the mist-shrouded mountains in the distance. Within his chest stirred not only a thirst for the unknown, but also the courage—or perhaps desperation—to confront the nameless terror ahead. This world was seething with hidden currents, its ancient laws stirring awake. He was destined to be among the first to step into the Lingyu.

In a hushed voice, he murmured:

"Is this… the beginning?"

As the words faded, from the mist beyond came the sense of eyes watching—deep, cold, indifferent—waiting.